


melancholia

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Experiments, Intoxicants, M/M, Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:45:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day you wonder if today’s the day he’s had enough. This one’s it, you say. Every day it hurts a little more to get up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	melancholia

**Author's Note:**

> "Yes, I have the spleen, complicated with melancholy, home-sickness, and a dash of hypochondria, and I fret, I rage, I yawn, I weary myself, I bore myself, and I find it horribly dull."
> 
> —Grantaire, Les Miserables Volume III, Chapter IV, THE BACK ROOM OF THE CAFE MUSAIN [[x](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com/post/67519804477/rantaire-grantaire-enjolras-melancholia)]

Every day you wonder if today’s the day he’s had enough. This one’s it, you say. Every day it hurts a little more to get up.

The morning’s the best and worst. It’s warm and simple and your bodies fit together. There are no questions. The alarm is a jarring, hated thing. He lets you snooze it three times before he prods you up.

Your mouth is full of cotton and your head is full of red ants. They have taken the place of red wine and are trying to eat your eyeballs. Light aches. The shower is better. You open your mouth and drink from the stream.

You can hear him making breakfast as you brush your teeth and try not to think about the last time you saw a dentist. When he’s done the counter will look like a cereal commercial: coffee, milk, fruit, scrambled eggs, all part of a healthy balanced breakfast. You grip the faucet when your stomach kicks up a protest and you wonder, as you always do, how you live here.

You eat breakfast because he made it. He sees how green around the gills you are. You hate it when he frowns.

“Grantaire, it’s Tuesday,” he says.

“I’m ambitious,” you say. To stop the frowning you go to him and kiss him and mess up his heroic hair. He lets you.

You leave first. He has a suit to put on, hair to fix. You go to the cafe. You open the cafe. The woman with the tiny laptop is waiting as usual on the stoop next door. She comes in with you. You give her a coffee with skim milk, as usual. She gives you fifty-seven cents as a tip, as usual. You make more coffee. You charge people four dollars for coffee. You make sandwiches. You wash dishes. You make more coffee. You clean the bathrooms. You change the napkins. You wash more dishes. You make coffee. You start pouring beers. You have a beer behind the counter. You wonder if tonight will be the night he doesn’t come home. You go home.

You sit in the studio with the equipment he bought for you and your music doesn’t work, it won’t work. You have nothing. You’re full on empty. You lie down on the floor instead of writing a song. The floor feels better than sitting up did. You’re so tired. Your brain hurts because it is never quiet. When you have every right to be happy you are sad. It’s no one’s fault but yours. It’s not your fault. It never was. You were supposed to be like this.

You drink whiskey from the bottle next to your guitar. You use whiskey more than your guitar. You think about how it will be when he leaves. He comes home. He finds you on the floor in the dark. He goes to make dinner. You can’t see his face but you hate it when he frowns.

You can smell onions and garlic cooking. You tell yourself to be better. You take a shot for courage.

You put your arms around him in the kitchen. You breathe in at his neck. You can never believe you’re allowed to have this. Did he move away to get the salt too quickly? What does it mean that he moves back? He tries to smile for you and it tears your heart into pieces.

“Tell me how I can help,” he says. “I know I can help.” You don’t say anything because he can’t. He’s a safety net that will fray like all the others. “I love you,” he says. He looks like he believes it. You go to your knees and blow him while he makes pasta. He tastes better than anything else. His fingers are in your hair. He says that you don’t have to, it’s been a long day. You laugh for the first time since you woke up and you make him come. At least you’re still good at that. Maybe that’s why he stays.

You think about that a lot. He didn’t want you for your mind or your music. He wanted your body first and resolved himself to the rest. It’s a shit deal, you think. You never would have made it, reversed. You know what you are like.

Over dinner you ask him questions so he won’t ask you any. It works. He likes to talk about his causes. He’s easily distracted. You keep him talking for a long time. Sometimes you are listening.

After dinner he thinks that you are song-writing. He says he doesn’t mind the smoke if the door’s closed. You feel bad about how it seeps out from the crack underneath. In the living room he does more work. He never stops. You can hear him on the phone to the friends you share. You hear him say to Combeferre, “It feels like there’s nothing I can do,” and you wonder if this is the last night. The smoke burns your eyes. Maybe he isn’t talking about you at all. You don’t know which is better. You play an old song he doesn’t know. He’ll think it’s new and tell you that it’s great. You want to smash the guitar you’ve loved since you were small because you’ve forgotten how to play it or why you should.

You go to him fucked-up to fuck. It’s Tuesday. It’s easier if you don’t have to think through who he is, who you are, what he sees. He always wants to fuck you. It’s the only thing you know for sure. Even after he’s gone, you know, he’ll think about this. You’ll never not think about it. He calls the scars on your skin battle-wounds. He doesn’t seem to see them. They’re all you see. You close your eyes.

He sleeps easily and deeply. You don’t sleep. In your head is everything you’ve done wrong and could do wrong and what you will do wrong. Your eyes are open. You’ll screw it up. You’re screwing it up. You’re so screwed up. It’s only a matter of time. You’ll fuck this up like you’ve fucked up everything before. You should make him go before he decides to leave. That’s the only way you’ll see it coming. If you make him leave he can’t leave you. If you make him leave he’ll go. That’s how you go to sleep.

Every morning it’s harder to wake up. You do, and he’s still there.


End file.
